


turn off the sun, my head is unravelling

by tabris



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breathplay, M/M, Oral Fixation, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3766501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabris/pseuds/tabris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles will never ever admit it out loud, but there's something about Peter that's always made him want to drop to his knees, even (especially) when Peter's at his most dangerous. So, when he sinks to the carpet between Peter's feet, eyes on Peter's the whole way down, it feels a little like Christmas morning.</p><p>Peter's eyes are wide with surprise and dark with arousal, only the faintest hint of blue edges visible from Stiles's current vantage point. He opens his mouth as if to speak but seems to think better of it and Stiles is ridiculously pleased that Peter's too fucking greedy to bother asking if he's sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn off the sun, my head is unravelling

**Author's Note:**

> i'd imagined this as happening vaguely senior-year ish when everyone's legal (in a 'verse where no one actually died and somehow stiles still hasn't gotten laid), hence the lack of an 'underage' tag. however, if you wanna picture this as happening, say, during the summer before the alpha pack, there's very little to contradict that. so, uh, have at.
> 
> [malapropian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian) helped make this better ♥

Stiles has been awake for fifty-three hours and nineteen minutes, and he's pretty sure the sheer amount of stimulants in his system are making him set off seismic sensors all the way in Oregon.

At least that's what he'll tell himself later when he's trying to figure out why the hell he didn't just boot Peter out his window the second he slinked in. His judgement was a little skewed. Right.

Now, though, now all he's thinking is that there's some _thing_ terrorizing the edges of Beacon Hills, working its way ever closer into the town every day. It's giving off some sort of ultrasonic shriek that none of the wolves can even get close to, not even Derek and his penchant for self-flagellation. So far Lydia's come the closest to it but as soon as the thing noticed her presence it fucking disappeared into thin air.

So, all Stiles has to go on for research is that they're hunting the worlds least effective dog whistle which can apparently teleport, and Google is not helping. Nor are any of the books he's accumulated in the last two years, or any of the various and sundry contacts he's made in the world of the supernatural.

"You need to take a break."

Stiles gives up on chewing his lower lip into a mess and heaves a deep sigh.

"Peter, there are four people dead. I can't just stop because I need my beauty sleep, unlike some people."

"I'm pretty enough to go without, don't you think?" Stiles just glares without even bothering to get up from his desk so Peter saunters closer, smirking. "Besides, isn't Lydia helping? Surely between the two of you no source is safe."

One of these days Peter is going to get punched and Stiles is going to watch. Stiles will not be _doing_ the punching. He likes his hand sans fractures. But he will definitely watch. With glee.

"We went with divide and conquer. She's going through all the Latin and Greek, Allison's helping with the French, and I've got the English and cyrillic languages. Which still leaves a shitload of stuff left over." _So_ much stuff. With the luck they're having the thing's going to be from some place where only like four people still speak the language and no one's ever bothered to write it down.

"And if you suddenly figured it out right now you mean to tell me you wouldn't be more likely to wrap your jeep around a pole than to make it to the fight?"

"No. Probably. Why are you here?"

"To take you to bed"

What.

Stiles spins in his chair to face Peter with skeptical eyebrows in full force.

"Could you repeat that? I think I may have progressed into auditory hallucinations."

Peter closes the distance and places his hands on the edge of the desk, caging Stiles in with his arms and forcing his knees apart to stand between them. He's about three times closer than even Scott regularly gets, that is to say ten times closer than strictly necessary, and all Stiles can think is _those biceps should be illegal_ and _wow he smells good_ and that maybe he's been acting more like the wolves than normal recently.

"I said," Peter purrs, voice dripping down Stiles' spine like molasses, "I've come to take you to bed, Stiles. You need to sleep."

Stiles gapes involuntarily, hyperaware of every heated point of almost-contact between them.

Almost as an afterthought, Peter adds with no little smarm, "The others are getting _worried_."

And yeah, maybe somewhere along the line the 'terror' part of the terrified arousal the wolf tended to bring out in him had morphed into a snarky sort of camaraderie, and maybe somewhere along that same line Stiles started meeting Peter's thinly veiled innuendo head on, but he'd never quite imagined it going any further than verbal sparring.

Okay _aside_ from the occasional jerk-off session. _Occasional._

Except right now Peter's got this _look_ that Stiles realizes he's seen before, recently even, where his mouth curls around the edge of a joke he's prepared to brush off, doing a poor job hiding the beginnings of want in his eyes.

The moment hangs suspended, Stiles eyes slip closed and he can feel the spinning of the Earth, feel Peter's gravity pulling him in as he sways into that arresting warmth.

Stiles' brain has been pinging all over the goddamn place the entire time he's been awake, but the second skin touches skin, for all it's an innocent brush of cheek to cheek, his mind settles. Even his shaking stutters to something closer to a shivering tremble.

He can feel Peter inhale deeply, a quiet and vaguely displeased murmur escaping before he presses closer to run his nose up Stiles' jaw and nuzzle behind his ear.

"Your blood is half caffeine," he complains petulantly, the moment broken.

"Some of us don't have werewolf stamina," Stiles responds dryly in a vain attempt to hide the effects Peter and his proximity are having.

"Somehow I don't think that would be a significant problem," Peter says after a second, complaint seemingly forgotten in favor of blatantly eyeing Stiles in a long, sweeping glance.

_What._

Stiles does not have the brainpower to deal with Peter's... _everything_ right now. So fuck it, he's just going to take everything he says and does at face value and let Peter deal with the goddamned consequences. He's the actual adult here anyways.

Or something.

Peter stands slowly, stepping back and taking that delicious, horribly tempting heat with him. It's so unfair, Peter's such a goddamned tease, Stiles _knows_ Peter can see, can _smell_ how hard his dick is getting in his sweats, and the combination of frustration and sleep deprivation are making everything dream fuzzy and surreal.

So of course the next logical thing to do is lean back in his chair, press the heel of his hand to the base of his cock to relieve some of the pressure, and bare his neck to the werewolf in front of him in complete and total submission.

Peter _growls_ , which, Stiles has come to terms with his inappropriate reactions to danger but _fuck_ , that's just—

A whimper escapes his throat, Peter's eyes flash, and Stiles bites his already abused lip hard enough to make it bleed.

"Come here," Peter says, demands, sounding more than a little strained.

Stiles can feel his own smirk spreading across bloody lips knowing _he_ did that, that he drove Peter to his base wolfy urges in a matter of minutes. Apparently accidentally seducing Peter Hale does wonders for one's confidence.

"Where do you want me?" he asks.

It's something of a flashback when Peter hooks a single, razor sharp claw under his chin to guide him into a standing position scant inches in front of him. While his brain remembers fear, Stiles' body apparently does not, and when Peter lets go, he automatically sways into the space between them. At this close he feels drugged out, high on the potential of a genuinely willing Peter and nothing in his way.

Stiles licks his lips, catches Peter's gaze following the path of his tongue, and _yes_.

"Actually."

Stiles will never ever admit it out loud, but there's something about Peter that's always made him want to drop to his knees, even (especially) when Peter's at his most dangerous. So, when he sinks to the carpet between Peter's feet, eyes on Peter's the whole way down, it feels a little like Christmas morning.

Peter's eyes are wide with surprise and dark with arousal, only the faintest hint of blue edges visible from Stiles's current vantage point. He opens his mouth as if to speak but seems to think better of it and Stiles is ridiculously pleased that Peter's too fucking greedy to bother asking if he's sure.

He is, though. He is so, _so_ sure. He just wants to take a second to revel, the anticipation of finally getting Peter in his mouth singing through his veins as he nuzzles the front of Peter's jeans, hands resting loosely on strong thighs as he mouths up the the clothed length of him.

It surprises Stiles a little that Peter's already hard for him. A part of him may have been hoping to take Peter all the way from soft to coming down his throat and back down, but that part quiets at the reminder that this is all for him.

Above him, Peter makes an impatient noise, then wraps a large hand around Stiles' slender neck, squeezing slowly but firmly for the space of three breaths, four, five, until Stiles' sleep deprived spinning bleeds into pulsing black. He lets up just as the darkness envelops the last pinprick of light and Stiles nearly comes with the rush of it, falling weakly against Peter as the return of oxygen overwhelms him.

"Fuck, okay," Stiles moans openmouthed into denim, fingers scrabbling for purchase. He's pretty sure he's on the verge of hearing colors.

Then Peter's cupping Stiles' jaw and hooking his thumb over over his bottom teeth, and Stiles flicks his tongue around it without thinking — as reminders go it's not exactly subtle. Neither is Peter popping the button of his fly with his other hand.

Stiles grins around the thumb in his mouth and reaches for the zip, a little hesitant at not having done anything remotely like this before but this is pretty much the definition of opportunity knocking and he's more than ready to open this particular door.

Too bad Peter's ass is making that difficult at the moment, with Stiles getting an inadvertent and altogether distracting handful in the process of trying to wrest Peter's stupidly tight jeans down far enough to actually get to the guy's dick.

Apparently Peter Hale keeps things trimmed down there, which is an absurd enough thing to have firsthand knowledge of that Stiles has to consciously suppress a burble of hysterical laughter. It _is_ awfully considerate, though, considering how badly Stiles wants to lick every inch of him.

Peter's cock is a thick weight in Stiles' hand, uncut and with skin so soft Stiles could just keep running his fingers back and forth along it for hours. The urge to feel it against his face, his lips is too much to resist, so he tilts his face into the crease of Peter's hips, breathing Peter in as he drags his cheek up the length of him, licking his lips absently.

The groan Peter lets out is appreciative rather than demanding, as though he's perfectly content to stand still as a stone and let Stiles indulge every orally fixated compulsion he's been suppressing for months right here and now.

"I've been watching you lick, chew, and suck on anything and everything since we met, Stiles," he says, pushing his fingers through the hair at Stiles' crown, forcing him to arch his neck and look upwards. "It's good to know that wasn't without cause."

(Some very distant part of Stiles' brain pops up long enough to remind him that that right there? That should be creepy. Stiles squashes it ruthlessly.)

Peter's smirking, of course, but the sheer lust writ over his face is a sight to behold.

Stiles whines low in his throat, trapped and wanting with Peter's dick _right there_ , and it feels right to just drop his jaw open and curl his tongue around what he can reach.

If he adored the touch of Peter's cock against his face, he fucking _loves_ having it on his tongue. Peter tastes a little of salt, a little like himself (thank you experimentation), and a whole lot like something Stiles desperately wants more of.

Peter sucks in a deep breath, then releases it and his grip on Stiles' hair with a shudder. It's already practically automatic to mouth his way further down, right hand twisted in Peter's jeans where they're trapped around his thighs, his left curled around the base and thumb still stroking unspeakably soft skin.

Stiles closes his eyes and happily lets his world narrow to the hot and heavy dick on his tongue, how Peter shakes, just a bit, every time he dips under his foreskin, how he never really understood the term 'mouth watering' until right now with spit pooling at his lips. He's actually drooling and he doesn't even care because now he can slide his fist up and down what he can't get in his mouth and the slickness of it all is _that_ good.

His own dick is leaking so much the front of his sweats are soaked through, which should be all kinds of embarrassing and gross but Peter seems to be one hundred percent into everything Stiles is doing at the moment so he doesn't let it bother him. If he's getting off a teeny bit on how dirty it feels to be _this_ fucking turned on from just giving a blowjob on his knees in his childhood bedroom at Peter Hale's mercy then that's neither here nor there.

Leaning back, Stiles catches stray drops of spit with his fingers and curls his palm around the head to hold Peter's cock in place while he works wet, gently suckling kisses up and down the shaft while trying to be mindful of his teeth. He's not entirely successful, and Peter's soft gasps whenever he accidentally catches a sharp edge are heady in a dangerous sort of way.

He gently tugs Peter's foreskin back so he can suck at the blood-dark head, tonguing at his slit and letting his lips move back and forth over the crown, moaning as more precome escapes. Peter runs his hand through Stiles' hair again, petting him encouragingly and making Stiles' scalp tingle at the touch, a lot like his lips are feeling at the moment, honestly.

"I _knew_ you'd be amazing at this."

Peter sounds _wrecked_ and Stiles kind of wants to stay right here for, well, ever to be honest. The real world can go fuck off.

Stiles unclenches his hand from where he's got a death grip on Peter's jeans, palming at his thigh, hip, belly, drags his fingertips down the trail of hair that runs from his belly button straight to his dick. The extra bit of skin on skin stirs something inside Stiles. There's just, god, Peter is so firm and solid and _strong_ , all over, and Stiles wants all of it, everything Peter can give him.

He's on the verge of desperation, sucking his way down, down, until he can feel the tip of Peter's cock tickling the back of his throat. That it makes him cough is stupidly frustrating, he doesn't _want_ to have to stop to breathe, to give up even for a second, so the next time he goes back in he ignores Peter's smarmy huff of laughter (he knows it's his face, Peter always laughs when he makes his determined face) in favor of swallowing him as far as he can.

Peter's hand drifts to his nape and his other comes to rest on Stiles' shoulder, thumbing his exposed collarbone. Stiles thinks it's supposed to be reassuring until, for the first time since this whole thing really got started, Peter _moves_ , holding Stiles in place as he thrusts his hips. The motion's shallow but it forces his cock into Stiles' throat over and over again, choking him with it and leaving him barely enough time to gasp in a fast breath between thrusts.

Peter is a fucking _asshole_ and he always has to know everything and at this moment Stiles literally could not care less because while he may have wanted Peter's dick in his mouth what he apparently _needs_ is Peter relentlessly fucking into it and carelessly abusing his throat like he owns him. Stiles' jaw is aching, his torn lip stinging and still sluggishly bleeding. His face is wet with tears and probably six different shades of red, he couldn't escape if his life depended on it, and it's the most perfect thing he's ever felt in his _life_.

Stiles moans helplessly and Peter jerks his hips, murmured curses tumbling out erratically as his pace quickens, as he thrusts deep enough push Stiles' nose against his pelvis. Stiles' hands are braced against Peter for all the leverage it gives him yet his mind is spinning, spinning, lost in overwhelming sensation.

In the end, it's not Peter emptying himself down Stiles' throat, or how his cock pulses against Stiles' tongue when he does, or even the sound of Peter saying his name like a prayer that sends Stiles spinning out of orbit untouched. No, it's ten knife sharp points, five on the delicate skin of his neck and five deep in the meat of his shoulder. It's Peter losing that last vestige of control all because of _him_.

His cry is muffled by the heavy weight in his mouth and when Peter pulls back, the momentum of his hips turned languid, Stiles laps at the sticky trails of come with a hazy sort of determination. After a moment, Peter retracts his claws, humming an almost-apology before drawing back completely.

Stiles doesn't whine at the loss, he _doesn't_ , so there's no reason for Peter to be chuckling at him like that _at all_. And he's totally okay with slouching in place because moving is unnecessary. He can just snooze here while Peter puts his dick back in his pants.

Or research.

Something.

Right.

Peter is _still_ laughing, the jerk, when he effortlessly picks Stiles up and carries him the three steps to his bed, laying him out on top of the blankets.

The kiss is unexpected, slow and searching, deep and thorough in a way that makes Stiles' toes curl and spine arch. Peter _lingers_ , shamelessly scenting Stiles until his eyes start drooping.

On the cusp of sleep, Stiles almost doesn't hear the whispered purr.

"My dear Stiles, has anyone ever told you that you're _perfect_?"

 

 

The next time Stiles looks at his phone there's an address next to a phone number for Peter he's pretty sure no one else in the pack has.

Well, then.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](http://confusetherude.tumblr.com). come say hi. (:


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